PS 3503 
.R88 P6 
1912 

Icopy ^ 



Pocahontas 

nnd Otber Sonnets 

By 

PDilip Jllcxanaer Bruce 



Pocabotttas 

Jina Otber Sonnm 

BV 

Pbilip Jflcxandcr Brnce 

It 



NORFOLK, VIRGINIA 
1912 






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TO 

philippa 

'Sole Daughter of my House and heart." 



_SJI»-' 



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II. 



TO ONE WHO DIED YOUNG. 



Thro ' all the quiet stages of the night, 
I lie on darkened couch, with sleepless eyes, 
And musing on the Past, before me rise 
Thy face and form, resplendent with the light 
Of youth, that ever careless mocks the flight 
Of Time, and jocund in its strength, defies 
The aches and pains of Age, its tears and sighs. 
Its wrinkling touch, its blanching breath, its 

blight. 
T saw thy dearest friend on yesterday. 
The raven coils of old had turned to gray; 
The soft, smooth cheek was furrowed line on 

line ; 
The straight and supple form all bent had 

grown ; 
The lucid, sparkling eye no longer shone; 
Not hers eternal youth, — alone tis thine. 



III. 



THE SLANDERED SEA. 



How long, oh Sea, shall men asperse thy name ! 
A woman's moods are thine, they sternly say, 
The sinuous leopard 's ; for dost thou not play - 
With trustful mariners, as though entamed. 
And then, with frenzied voices, rise and maim 
Them all, or roll them down where dies the 

Day? 
'Tis not thy fault the waves o'erwhelm their 

prey. 
It is the winds'. Thou art the flying game 
Those wolves pursue, as in Siberian woods. 
Left to thyself, peace breathes thro' all thy 

moods. 
Bichold the blackest storms that blow assuage 
Their fury in thy sombre depths unseen ; 
So would Othello have remained serene 
Had no lago stirred his soul to rage. 



IV. 



THE PETREL. 



Here, in the central sea, where sinks the wave 
With flying spray to sapphire gulfs profound; 
Then upward swells, with vast tumultuous 

sound, 
Until the watery mountain seems to lave 
The murky sky with foaming spouts of brine, — 
Here, where the winds, unchained from ocean's 

cave, 
Like famished madmen loosed, do roar and 

rave, 
And shake the welkin with infuriate din. 
Behold the petrel, with unresting wing. 
Dart up the towering billow, poise, and fling 
His body down into the whirl below; 
Then upward once again, with gallant form 
Directed firm and straight against the storm. 
Unmindful of the wildest gales that blow. 



V. 



GENIUS. 



Thou creature with the brow of Heavenly light, 
Oft joined to leprous limbs and feet of clay, 
Shall we thy human weakness coldly weigh, 
In Puritanic scales of wrong and right, 
As tho' thou wert some crude and brainless 

wight 
Who breathes no air but that of common day? 
What's he to one, who, in immortal lay, 
Has swept the constellations in his flight, 
Tho' oft he sinks in mire. Abjure the thought! 
The Poet's line is all, the man is nought. 
Poe, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Marlow, — these 
Were Frailty's favorite children, too, but yet 
Men will forget them not, till they forget 
Orion's orbs, and Capri's azure seas. 



VI. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



Time weighs the destinies that men befall, 
Bestows new laurels, turns the green to sere. 
Too oft no honors soothe the Poet here, 
But when his Shade has passed into the Hall 
Of Death, we hear Fame's trumpet sound thro' 

all 
The avenues of this terrestrial sphere, 
A blare that stirs no more the withered ear, 
But makes men pause to list the lofty call 
To pay full homage to a slighted name, 
And genius long o'erlooked, with fire acclaim. 
Thus, melancholy, taciturn, forlorn, 
Poe went his way thro' thorns, and rocks, and 

sand. 
Lo, Fortune gave him then her empty hand. 
But for him dead she pours her amplest horn. 



VII. 



FOE'S HELENS. 



Two Helens decked the Poet's sombre sphere. 
The first, with low, sad voice, and pensive eye, 
Inflamed the dreaming boy to ecstacy. 
Death beckoned all too soon to one so dear 
To Life and Beauty. There, beside her bier, 
lie sank forlorn, while from their coigns on 

high. 
The stars looked down npon his agony. 
Another comes, a Poetess, a Seer, 
xV Priestess, cold and fair, at Beauty's shrine, 
A soul for whom aesthetic souls might pine. 
To set that heart on fire, the Poet strove. 
Oh, luckless pilgrim in the paths of time, 
Complacent, she accepts thy burning rhyme, 
But, wavering long, reje<its thy stormy love. 



VIII. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. 



I lay upon thy altar, Memory, 
These stanzas of a grateful sonneteer; 
For oft, thou Wizard, o'er the Northern Sea, 
By thee borne far aloft, do I career 
To visit Art's and Nature's richest shrines 
Once more, — see Venice in its watery nest; 
The flush of dawn behind the Apennines ; 
The green Alp tapering to its snowy crest; 
Heradschin and its tombs; the long, dark aisles 
Of Sainte Gudule; the Pantheon's dome sub- 
lime ; 
The gallery where Mona Lisa smiles ; 
The bulging treasures of recorded time 
Pent in old London's walls; the roaring 

Strand ; 
And Thames meandering thro' a jeweled land. 



IX. 



HAWORTH. 



There stands on England's genius-haunted sod 
No sterner shrine than Haworth 's stony hill. 
Topped with its tombs, its sombre House of 

God, 
Its hamlet gray and old, I see it still 
As dark it leaned against the moors, until 
It looked a rock in some immobile sea. 
Overhead, a lonely plover whistled shrill; 
Around the wolfish winds coursed wild and 

free ; 
And sable clouds came down on tower and 

tree. 
There, hand in hand, the three sad sister ghosts, 
With eyes of burning genius, walked with me; 
While walked behind the soundless, voiceless 

hosts, 
In spectral forms, of thrice ten thousand dead, 
Who there had found at last a wormy bed. 



X. 



DOVE OF THE DUOMO. 



Beneath the arch of Brunelleschi's dome, 
Hard by the lily of the Shepherd's Tower, 
The worshippers knelt at the vesper hour. 
Forth from the bosom of the incensed gloom, 
The wailing chant, the litany of Rome, 
The organ's roll, thro' blazoned pane and door, 
Came to my ear, all saddened by the power 
Of those appealing voices. Heavenward clomb 
My eyes. Will not an angel from yon sky, 
Bine as Lugano's waters, downward fly 
Drawn by those harmonies? And lo, a dove, 
With wings outspread, and bathed in sapphire 

light. 
Enraptured, floats around the dome's far 

height. 
Behold God's messenger of answering love. 



XI. 



MUTATION. 



As roll the years, our dearest faces pass, 

Like stars that sink behind the twilight sea. 

The world of living men is not to me, 

Grown old and wan, the world that once it was. 

Where are the friends of yore? They are, alas 

But shadows on the walls of memory ! 

Bewildering scene of instability ! 

Is there no single thing that's anchored fast 

Against the blows of Time's devouring wave? 

Naught that for me defies the open grave? 

There is. The hill where I in boyhood ranged ; 

The vale below o'ergrown with corn; the 
stream, 

By whose umbrageous brink I loved to dream. 

These, only these, remain untouched, un- 
changed. 



XII. 



STAUNTON RIVER. 



Oh, River of the drooping willow tree, 

The rustling maize, the darting dragon fly.. 

The wary mallard, from afar I see 

Thy lucid waters glide in silence by, 

A mirror for the saffron sunset sky, 

And for the snowy pilgrim clouds of noon. 

I hear the echoes of the bugle cry 

Thy boatmen sound beneath the harvest moon. 

I thrust my hand into thy sands, and soon 

I seize, as treasure trove, a dainty shell 

Flushed with the dyes of apple buds in June. 

Or near or far, o'er thee, the magic spell 

Of youth and childhood falls, until thou seem 

As fair to me as some enchanted stream. 



XIII. 



AUDUBON. 



Just as some dweller in the arid town 
Grown weary of the tramp of passing feet, 
The roar of wheels and voices, and the heat 
Of men's dissensions, with a smile takes down 
His traveller's staff, and slipping off the gown 
Of urban ease, forsakes the strenuous street 
And all its noise for some far-off retreat. 
Where quiet woods and birds and streams 

abound, 
So I, my Audubon, worn out with men, 
Leave all their haunts behind and roam with 

thee; 
Lost in thy pure and dewy page, again. 
Thro' verderous forest shades, I ramble free; 
Once more I hear the woodlark in the glen, 
The mocking bird in the magnolia tree. 



XIV. 



AUTUMN. 



Lo, Autumn walks with me the woodland way, 
Where aisle on aisle, the pillared hickory 
Unfolds o'erhead its lordly canopy, 
Splashed with the golden splendors of decay. 
Below, the whitest arrows of the Day, 
Shot from the zenith of the dark blue sky, 
Dissolve to amber twilight. All sounds die 
To silence there, save sounds that seem to stay 
Alive in that becalmed atmosphere, 
As tho' to drowse the more the listening ear, — 
The squirrel's bark, the nuts' recurring rain. 
The distant caw of crows, the whispering stir 
Of gently falling leaves, the insects' churr; 
The axeman's stroke, again, and thrice again. 



XV. 



LAST PARTRIDGE OF THE COVEY. 



On highland wood the beams of sunset fall, 
And in the vale the yellow twilight glows ; 
Autumnal peace, and evening's deep repose, 
Like some soft, shadowy veil, are drawn o'er 

all. 
No sound is heard except one strong clear call, 
That seems to pierce the air as far it goes; 
It is the partridge on the ivied wall 
That whistles for its mates at interval. 
In vaiuj thou lonely bird, for one by one 
They fell before the fowler's flaming gun. 
No more at morn shall pass to frosty field 
That russet brood, or to the brooklet's side 
At noon, or upland sedge at eventide. 
Lost, lost for aye are they to thy appeal. 



XVI. 



THE COLONIAL GARDEN. 



Oh, gaudy relic of a blithesome age ; 
Clear voice that holds the far romantic past; 
Ray from a vanished star; illumined page 
From sumptuous volume gone to dust, — thou 

hast 
Within the compass of thy fragrant close, 
The purple iris, and the carmine pea. 
The yellow daffodil, the blood-red rose, 
The tulip, crocus, and anemone; 
And as their odors pass, before me rise 
The stately mazes of the minuet; 
The ebon patches under sparkling eyes ; 
The buckled high-heeled shoes on dainty feet; 
And painted fans, lace ruffles, and brocade, 
And powdered belles, and beaux on gay parade. 



XVII. 



RED BIRD OF THE CITY SQUARE. 



Oh, flaming tenant of the tangled brake, 
Didst thou desert thy still and leafy haunt 
Because thou wished, in urban eyes, to flaunt 
Thy cardinal robe? Behold thou dost awake 
At streak of dawn, as though intent to make 
The street resound with song. No wheel can 

daunt 
Thy breast, as forth thou pour thy piercing 

chant, 
And burst thy very heart for music's sake. 
Oh, fly the town ! It was but yesterday 
I sauntered down a rural garden way 
That breathed of drowsy peace and soft repose. 
And saw thy scarlet kinsmen skurrying by, 
Or perched among the vines, with peering eye. 
These were thy friends, and this thy native 

close. 



XYIII. 



RICHARD JEFFERIES. 



Melodious birds that haunt the English lea, 
Field, dell, and dusky woodland, flit before 
My eyes, altho' a thousand leagues of sea 
Are bluely curved between, as, Jefferies, o 'er 
Thy scented, vocal page, I linger long, — 
The soaring lark spills music from the cloud; 
From flowering hedge, the mavis pours her 

song; 
And thronging starlings burst in chorus loud; 
The bold cuckoo cries out from hill and dale; 
Soft moans, in leafy nook, the lonely dove ; 
From moonlit thorn, the amorous nightingale 
Trills to his silent mate his note of love; 
While, from the glimmering knoll, as twilight 

falls, 
The partridge to his vagrant partner calls. 



XIX. 



NATHANIEL BACON. 



Prom out the sombre forest wilderness, 
A youthful hero stalks into the light, 
From crown to sole, all harnessed for the fight, 
His darkened brow with patriot care oppressed. 
His glance resolved. No maiden in distress, 
In Age chivalric, found a bolder knight 
Than thou, Virginia, to set lance for right, 
And all thy people's poignant wrongs redress. 
He beards the tyrant at his very door, 
And hurls him vanquished to a distant shore ; 
Old England's mighty arm he then defies; 
And marching swiftly up and down the land. 
He holds it in the hollow of his hand; 
Then fades into the woods again, and dies. 



THE HEAVENLY MIRAGE. 



In youth, as lost in dreams, we pause upon 
The verge of Manhood's far-spread Wonder- 
land, 
What thronging scenes, in clear mirage, ex- 
pand 
In splendor to the distant horizon ! 
Ere Age outruns our feet, the glow is gone. 
The vision sunk into the arid sand. 
But when the end of life is near at hand, 
There looms for us, beyond this earthly zone, 
Across the waters of the River Death, 
A fairer landscape yet, which Hope and Faith 
Together gild with their celestial ray; 
And when the brink is reached, behold that 

light 
Still shines, until at last our Day and Night 
Become, beyond the stream. Eternal Day. 



XXI. 



THE OLD. 



Behind us fadeth Youth's resplendent shore; 
Before us beetle Age's crags and snows; 
Our Indian Summer has waned to its close, 
And winter's here to chill us to the core. 
Oh, for the years that shall return no more ! 
Remembered all their joys, forgot their woes ! 
What is our gain? Naught save a dull repose, 
And leisure sad to number o'er and o'er 
The pleasures once possessed, forever fled, 
And count and count again our precious dead. 
We clasp to breast the treasures that remain, 
And through the sluggish hours, in silence, 

pray, 
*'0h Time be kind, snatch not these too away," 
But in our hearts, we know the prayer is vain. 



XXII. 



IF THE DEAD CAME BACK. 



Ah, if the dead came back from land and sea, 
And knocking softly on our closed door, 
Should enter at our quiet call, would we 
Burst out with cries of joy, or to the floor 
Sink down aghast, or stand dismayed before 
The loss and selfish pain that we foresaw? 
Perhaps, the heir, while counting up his store, 
Sees his returning father but to abhor 
And threat the interloper with the law. 
The husband, toying with a fairer bride, 
Would he leap up to greet his ghost-wife, or, 
With tenderest honor, seat her by his side? 
Or, pointing coldly to the open door. 
Command her sternly to return no more ? 



XXIII. 



WEST POINT. 



Majestic Heights, by Nature and by Art 
Alike with massive beauty grandly crowned, 
Thy mountain bulwarks have been rent apart 
To let the River moat thee half around. 
Here, from the parapet, I, looking down. 
This still autumnal eve, upon thy stream, 
Shut like a lake within its gorge profound, 
And drenched in Heavenly blueness, silent, 

dream 
Of waters that in Alpine hollows gleam. 
Then, glancing up the hill, as I behold 
Thy gothic shrine, that mirrors Day's last beam, 
Thy battlements outstanding firm and bold, 
A vision rises, not of thee or thine. 
But of some lofty stronghold on the Rhine. 



XXIV. 



POE AND WHISTLER MEMORIALS AT 
WEST POINT. 



From yon gray temple, like a fortress set 

On its own height, down thro ' broad courts and 

halls, 
And in the shade of battlemented walls, 
I passed to where the towering parapet 
Beats back the spacious stream's eternal fret. 
On either hand, I saw what sternly calls 
To patriots, — cannon piled on cannon, balls 
On balls, the sword, the gun, the bayonet, 
The plumes, the flags unfurled, the ordered 

swarms 
Of marching men, the glittering uniforms ; 
And in a nook, I saw two chiseled stones, 
And, seeing, lo, I felt as when there come 
Between the crash of martial fife and drum, 
The pastoral flute's serene, melodious tones. 



XXV. 



THE BOOK SHELF. 



Than yonder modest shelf against my wall, 
No burly galleon, with its coffered gold. 
Ere bore a richer treasure up ; for all 
That stirs the human heart, and mind, and soul, 
Speaks with the trumpet 's voice thro ' the great 

roll 
Of England's poet-kings assembled there 
In verse resplendent, from the first of old, 
The courtly Chaucer, to the glorious pair 
Who lodged by Arno's side. I could not spare 
Those glowing volumes ; no, not one ; for day 
By day, thro' all the hours, the lines that share 
The moment's mood, reflective, sad, or gay. 
Like tongues that whisper lov/, commune with 

me 
In flawless words of perfect sympathy. 



XXVI. 



THE RECLUSE. 



Philosopher, who stands outside the throng, 
And with a shrewd and humorous eye looks on ; 
Who pricks men's foibles with a mocking 

tongue, 
But still preserves a genial undertone; 
Who brusquely claims the right to live alone 
Yet keeps in crusty breast a feeling heart; 
And tho ' he strives our friendly palms to shun, 
In spirit walks with us not all apart; 
Without Ambition's chafe, or Envy's smart, 
Disdaining fame, and wealth, and civic power, 
Far from the wrangling forum and the mart, 
Tho' not unmindful of the passing hour. 
Pursues the cloistered scholar's brooding life. 
His books at once his calling, children, wife. 



XXVII. 



DAUGHTER OF DALMATIA. 



Oh, Daughter of Dalmatia, young and fair, 
Didst thou not rob the peach, the rose, the dew 
To paint thy cheek to that enchanting hue? 
Thy face reflects the morn ; the night thy hair. 
Thou art not of our clime. Regarding thee, 
A vision rises of an alien shore ; 
I hear the Adriatic waters roar; 
A land of forest, pasture, flocks, I see, 
That rolls from summer isles to barren peaks ; 
A storied land, a land of old Romance. 
Sweet maid, upon thy brow, and in thy glance, 
Dalmatia's beauty lingers; still she speaks 
In thy rich voice; and in thy lucid eyes, 
Unveils the glories of her cloudless skies. 



XXVIII. 



THE COUNTRY PHYSICIAN. 



Samaritan to all the countryside, 

The Light of God in low and high abode, 

I see thee journeying down the lonely road, 

Amid the silence of the forest wide, 

Too lost in solitary thought to guide 

Thy muddied beast with conscious hand, or 

goad 
With spur, as on, without a halt, he strode 
To where some sick one languished hollow eyed. 
What didst thou ponder over? Life or Death, 
Thou who had caught so oft the closing breath 
In bondman's lonely hut and master's hall? 
Or was it on the Soul, that leaps to God 
Whene'er its earthly frame becomes a clod, 
And Death to human eyes has ended all? 



XXIX. 



MONEY. 



Oh, coin of silver in my open hand, 
That, shuttle-like, shall pass, or soon or late, 
Thro' all the woof and warp of all the land. 
Thou fairy wand that lights or dims our fate. 
And now excites our love and now our hate. 
Last eve, thou wert the artful harlot's wage; 
This noon shall find thee in the beggar's plate; 
Tonight, the thwarted burglar, in his rage. 
Shall slay for thee ; tomorrow morn, the sage 
With thee shall buy one pregnant volume more ; 
Philanthropists shall use thee to assuage 
Disease's pangs, relieve, uplift tlie poor. 
Thus, thou, in brothel, palace, hut, and mart. 
Unconscious, conscienceless, do play thy part. 



XXX. 



LONDON. 



Behold thou art an urban Amazon, 

Choked with the waters of Humanity. 

Ten thousand streams of men are rolling on 

To merge their tributary floods in thee. 

Through all thy streets, the dual currents flow. 

And never pauseth in their forward course. 

As Night draws on, they wane; as Day, they 

grow; 
But Night or Day, they never spend their force. 
Alike against the noon and midnight sky, 
Resound the blended strokes of heel on heel ; 
The strident blare of horns; the hawker's cry; 
The roar against the stones of wheel on wheel. 
Oh, where is Death ? We seek him everywhere, 
But all in vain, for Life alone is there. 



lyia 



